Written by Mark MacNamara. Originally: "Dialog With Stone," a traveler's digression begun in 2004, with entries From Africa, Europe and North America. Now: a ramble-jam through the countryside of American culture, high and low, real and imagined.

Feb 19, 2012

"No, that's not the way it happened at all," said Magnus's wife, looking around the table and then finally at her husband. "I remember it exactly. She called you in the middle of the night, said they were at Pitcairn Island, and there was a problem with the boat." "His name is on the tip of my tongue," said Magnus. "Somebody Bixby found to sail his boat," The wife looked at the person sitting next to her for help, it was the neighbor of this woman once maroonned in the south seas. But that person shook his head. "And didn't she say she'd been raped?" Magnus's wife went on. Magnus hauled up his worried expression. "I just remember I had to go down there and sail it back." Somebody else at the table spoke up. "I heard they stopped in at Bali. Isn't that partly muslim?" "Yes," said a young college graduate who had been silent all night, and added, "They never let a baby's feet touch the ground for the first six months of life." The somebody else waved that aside. "And the customs official did a search and found marijuana. I think somebody from the State Department to get them both out. But maybe she told people one story to hide the truth...." What about the boat? someone asked. "Ah ya, well you know it wasn't such a good boat," said Magnus. "Very long, 60 feet, but cheap materials. You wouldn't want to go 'round the horn in that thing. That constant knocking, it would fall apart. Not like a Swan, not that quality at all."

Feb 17, 2012

Behold the coming of drone swarms. Think what this will do for the rejuvenation of noir. The aging detective with his fleet of quadrotors tailing the unfaithful spouse; the industrial espionage that will become so much easier; and with a larger version what a boon to drug smugglers; not mention a new way to carry out bio-cyber-terrorism attacks. Think of how much more reason we'll have to be paranoid. On the other hand, no one will ever get lost; because everyone will be under constant surveillance. The slightest misstep will be recorded. People will become much more self-conscious. A new makeup perhaps. And there'll be 'droney', your assistant shopper-drone. Drones will be ever smaller; and finally someone will slap their cheek thinking it's a mosquitoe when it's a drone. When people call you a drone it will have a whole new meaning. "Why don't my drones do a flyby with your drones." Maybe for the ladies, a drone landing hat. Color-coordinated drones. Doppelganger drones. And twitter drones, and we'll be available to be seen at every moment, and how fascinating it will all be.....

Feb 1, 2012

Winding stairs lead up to the front door. It's half open. I enter. There's a brief ante way, and just to the right, a room, completely dark, save for a rickety looking little fire under the mantle. I call out. Suddenly, he appears in front of me. He's smiling, always so jovial.
We go into the kitchen where he has everything prepared. Fresh fish, cauliflower, an enormous pan with paella, bread, hummus, a Greek salad, naturally. "Would you like a glass of wine?" he begins. I shake my head. It's a work day, I say. He is undeterred. "This is excellent. Try it."
He pours me a glass. "To my play," he says, and he goes on to tell me about how he has prepared the food, and asks if I like this or that. We go outside where he has several ovens cut into the rock. One for bread, one for fish. Finally, we sit down in his diningroom, which is cluttered with small boxes on chairs, stacks of magazines, and on the wall a relief of Aphrodite's head in profile.
He chatters on, tells me his wife is somewhere about. A man in his 30s appears and disappears. I have no idea who it is. "I do what I want," he tells me, and from the beginning he's drinking quickly. "If I like someone I let them know. I may have them or I may not. You know at this age, you should be able to do what I want."
Finally, we get to the subject of the play. "What do you think?" he asks me.
The play is based on a true story of a woman living in a small town. Think of Kalavryta. Nearly 20 years ago she threw herself off a bridge. She was then in her 70s. Here is what happened. During the war, when the Germans reached her town the captain called the people into the square and said what a shame it was that the war had come to this and he certainly took no pleasure in this occupation, and he went on at great lengths to praise Greek culture. He promised — many times — that no harm would come to the town's people. His very warm manner was all part of his presentation, and he kept repeating that he would do anything he could to make this period pass without incident. But of course, there were partisans and remnants of the Greek army; eventually several German soldiers were killed and then the captain called the people into the town square once more and this time his persona had completely changed and that was when the massacre started.

And so this woman could never get over the way this officer had made her believe that everything would be fine. She could never get over the way he changed and the way she had been so drawn in.

"I think the story is extraordinary," I tell him.

And now he brings a second bottle, and he doesn't want to talk about the play at all. He wants to tell me he's going to have a pacemaker put in. Again and again he rubs his face with his hand. As though he's going to stretch it into some new shape, some other identity, mold some new person without all of these problems.

I draw him back to the play and make the point that perhaps the woman killed herself for some other reason. After all, why would she wait 50 years? Why wouldn't she be able to resolve this in that time? Or else kill herself much earlier. And what was the ignition? Something must have happened. I suggest that needs to be part of the play; that he needs to explore the psychology of this woman, not focus on what happened in the war. And especially considering Greece now.

"Perhaps, there's some broader truth here," I tell him. "Perhaps, the idea of not being able to change has some sort of resonance."

He shakes his head. He swirls his nearly empty glass. He looks at me for a long time. The plates are ravaged and empty. It's not about the play at all.